


all this, and love too

by BurningFairytales



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Birthday, Birthday Fluff, Birthday Presents, Chocobros - Freeform, Fluff, Insecurity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 01:44:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11567724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurningFairytales/pseuds/BurningFairytales
Summary: He’d considered, really, telling Noctis. He had. But Noctis had been so busy lately, and Prompto just couldn’t bring himself to add to that.So he's going to spend his birthday alone. It's fine. He's used to it.Or:The one where Prompto is fully prepared to spend his birthday alone playingKing's Knightand Noctis has other plans.





	all this, and love too

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in maybe two hours for tumblr user [evil-rainbow-sunshine](http://evil-rainbow-sunshine.tumblr.com) because they requested something to cheer them up on their birthday.  
> I uploaded it to tumblr yesterday, but it was super rushed, and I felt like I owed them a proper, edited version.
> 
> So here you go! Again, happy birthday! <3

Prompto slings his bag over his shoulder and sighs as he waits for the traffic light to turn green.

He’d considered, really, telling Noctis. He had. But Noctis had been so busy lately; royal obligations tinting the skin just below his eyes darker and his skin even paler than usual. Every morning for the past two weeks, Noctis had come to school looking exhausted, falling asleep during lunch break, and history and basically every time he closed his eyes for more than a minute.

Prompto just couldn’t bring himself to add to that.

Telling Noctis wouldn’t really have made a difference, Prompto knows. All it would have accomplished is that Noctis would inevitably have felt bad when he wouldn’t be able to make time for Prompto. And that’s just not acceptable.

If there is nothing Prompto can do to take the load off Noctis’ shoulders, he at least doesn’t want to make it worse.

(He’d opened his mouth, just once today, while they were heading out of school. He’d hesitated, and had, in the end, said nothing. Only wished him a great weekend, and _‘I’ll see you on Monday, Noct, and I am so gonna beat your high score tonight!”_ )

The light turns green. Prompto crosses the street.

So this October 25th is going to be as uneventful as the year before and the year before that.

So he’s going to spend his birthday alone. This is fine, he tells himself. He’s used to it.

He makes a small detour before heading home, just a few blocks, to his favourite café  – the one that sells the mint-chocolate frosted cupcakes he likes so much but indulges in so very rarely anymore.

One of these days, he decides, as the he enters and the doorbell chimes above his head, he’s going to have to bring Noct – Prompto is sure he’d love it. It’s a quiet place; completely nondescript, in one of Insomnia’s many backstreets. A remnant of the time when Prompto was slightly more of a low-burning candle than trying his hardest to be a 100 watt light bulb; when he was still the mousy, reserved boy who’d sit quietly in the back of that café, looking through his photos.

The barista waves at him when he approaches, and hands him the cupcake he orders in a brown paper bag. “On the house,” she says. “Happy birthday!”

Prompto grins. “Thanks!”

 It should be enough, for one person to remember.

(It’s not, but he wants it to be. Prompto doesn’t want to be selfish.)

 

* * *

 

When he gets home, he leaves his bag on the chair at the dinner table on the way to his room, slips out of his tie and shrugs off his jacket before tossing both carelessly on his bed.

He takes a shower first; attempting to wash his sullenness away with the water disappearing down the drain. It doesn’t quite work, but he does feel more relaxed afterwards, so he counts it as a win.

His hair is still wet when he trots back into the kitchen, wearing the most comfortable shirt he owns; he grabs a small plate for the cupcake from the cupboard over the sink, and opens the bag.

There’s a birthday candle stuck in the frosting, small and a mix of bright pink and white. Prompto pokes it appreciatively and smiles.

Vows he’s going to tip a little extra the next time he goes to the café.

He gets a lighter from the drawer in the hallway, and lights it. Sits at the table and stares at the flame dancing on the colourful wax.

“Make a wish,” he tells himself, corners of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. He closes his eyes, thinks of blue eyes and raven hair; of laughter and warmth and videos games played in an apartment too big for one single person, and blows the candle out.

And when he opens his eyes, he adds, almost in an afterthought, “happy birthday to me.”

Cupcakes are really hard to eat, actually, without making a mess. He considers getting a spoon for the frosting, but then shrugs to himself, and just takes a bite. It’s really not like anyone’s going to be seeing him get frosting all over his face.

Except the doorbell rings.

Frowning, Prompto wipes his mouth furiously – his hand doesn’t come away green, so he figures it’s safe to get the door. His adoptive parents are not in the city – haven’t been for a while, and anyway, they have a key. He hasn’t ordered any food, either, and really, who’d come to visit him?

“Coming,” he calls, entering the hall. The peephole only shows the empty porch, so he shrugs, and opens the door.

There’s nothing at first, not for a second, and then someone’s grabbing his arm – the world turns upside down, and Prompto is dimly aware that someone’s picked him up and thrown him over their shoulder.

“Uh,” he says, eloquently.

“If ‘ _uh’_ is your reaction to getting kidnapped, kid, we’re really going to have to talk.’ There’s a chuckle, and yeah, Prompto recognises the voice.

“Gladio!” He squirms a little. “What are you doing?”

“Kidnapping you, as I said. In By order of the crown – or its prince, at least. Do you have your keys?”

“”No.” Prompto wriggles and twists again, but Gladio’s grip is vicelike. Giving up, he adds, “they’re on the table. Next to the door.”

“Ah.” Gladio leans forward, stops – presumably to look for the keys, but Prompto can’t see what he’s doing from where he’s hanging, face down, over Gladio’s shoulder. Then there’s movement again. “Got ‘em!”

He turns – Prompto turns with him, and looks up to see the front door falling shut behind them.

 

* * *

 

Prompto would have expected Ignis to be in the car – if he’d had any time to imagine this situation at all – so he’s surprised when Gladio sets him down, and walks around to the driver’s seat.

“Hey big guy, I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what this is about?” He asks, smiling despite himself at the absurdity of the situation.

“Not gonna. You’ll see.”

“Okay then.” He climbs in the passenger seat, fiddles with the radio until he’s found a station he likes.

The sun’s already setting – it’s autumn, after all, and late in the afternoon. There are a few rays of light shining through Insomnia’s skyscrapers here and there, lighting up the buildings in just the right way to give them a sort of golden glow. It’s beautiful – Prompto wishes he had his camera, but he settles for snapping a few pictures with his phone.

He recognises the way they’re taking even without having been told – Ignis has driven him to and from Noctis’ apartment enough times, after all. It makes sense – there’s really nowhere else for Gladio to bring him, but Noctis is _busy_.  Prompto knows that.

“Are you sure?” he asks, as Gladio steers the car into the underground parking lot.

“I don’t wanna bother him,” he adds when the car is parked.

Gladio glances at him from the corner of his eye, and sighs. “Of course it’s okay. He asked me to bring you.” Then he slaps a Prompto’s shoulder playfully. “Come on.”

They take the elevator up to the top floor, and Gladio knocks on Noctis’ door, loudly and with vigour. “Open up. I got him!” Then he steps back. “Prompto. You’ve got something on your face.”

“Huh?!”

Prompto’s still wiping furiously across his mouth and chin when he hears the sound of footsteps and shuffling. The door opens just as he’s dropping his hand again – there’s a traitorous smear of mint green on his hand, and he glares at Gladio, who smirks, before wiping it on his pants.

Noctis steps out of his apartment only to pull Prompto inside. “About time,” he says, and wraps his arms around him.

And oh – this is nice. Unexpected – Noctis doesn’t seem to have a problem with Prompto being tactile, but he rarely initiates anything himself. Still, it’s definitely welcomed, and Prompto returns the hug with a smile.

Noctis is still in his school uniform, he notices. He smells of something like sandalwood and cinnamon soap. It’s unfair, that he smells so nice even after a long day.

When Noct releases him, Prompto takes a look around the room. It’s covered in balloons, yellow and orange and white; on the wall hangs a banner reading “Happy Birthday” in big golden letters.

There’s a cake on the counter, artfully decorated, with strawberries and cream on top, and Ignis steps out of the kitchenette behind it, approaches Prompto. Then he, too, gives him a hug. “Happy birthday, Prompto. Noct said you liked the strawberry tarts I made a few weeks ago, so I decided to take the liberty of making a birthday cake similar to it.”

“I.” Prompto says. “What.”

Behind him, Gladio closes the front door, and throws an arm around his shoulders. He ruffles his hair – dry, by now, but definitely messy, considering Prompto hadn’t exactly planned on leaving the house.

 “Happy birthday, kid. I’m gonna yell at you for not telling us, but you’re safe until tomorrow.” He grins, and then follows Ignis back into the kitchen, where they begin to stack to grab plates and a big serrated knife for the cake.

“Noct,” Prompto tries again as he watches them go. The words don’t quite seem to be working the way he wants them to. His eyes find Noct’s again, and he tries to make his hair look a bit more presentable – a fruitless effort, probably, without a brush or hair gel.

“You didn’t tell me,” Noctis narrows his eyes at him, but there is no heat in his voice. “You didn’t tell me it was your birthday. I can’t believe you let me hear it from Ignis.”

“How did Ignis know?” There.  A full sentence. It’s progress.

“Don’t underestimate him.” Noct reaches out, pushes his hand away, and then begins to smooth out his hair with his forehead creased in concentration. Prompto’s too overwhelmed to really do anything.

“But-“ he starts again instead. “You’re busy. You’ve got all those meetings to go to and reports to look over. I didn’t want- They’re important.”

“ _You’re_ important,” Noctis disagrees. Finally appearing to be satisfied with Prompto’s hair, he drops his hand. “I will always make time for you.”

It’s a lot. Prompto presses his lips together and wills the burning in his eyes to go away. He wanted to be content with a cupcake and an hour of two playing King’s Knight. He wanted that to be enough.

But this? How could he have ever imagined this?

Noctis pulls him over to the couch, where Ignis has placed plates and cutlery, and Gladio puts the cake down on the table before jumping over the backrest of the couch and joining them.

“Will you cut the cake, Prompto?” Ignis prods.

“Me?”

“It’s _your_ birthday,” Noctis points out.

Cutting a cake, it turns out, is not an easy task either. Harder even than eating a cupcake with any semblance of grace or elegance. The pieces he cuts are completely uneven in size, and one of the strawberries rolls of the cake and onto the table, leaving a trail of cream in its wake. But even with Gladio snorting at his efforts, Prompto figures it’s well enough.

(The base is flakey; the layers in between soft and fluffy in his mouth. The cream is sweet and tastes like strawberry and vanilla, and Prompto’s pretty sure it’s the best thing he’s ever eaten in his entire life.)

 Afterwards, Ignis clears the table. Prompto turns to see Gladio make an elaborate motion with his hands; he has no idea what they mean, but Noctis seems to get it, because he gets up.

“Hang on,” he says, and disappears into the bedroom, only to re-emerge a minute later with a few boxes in his hand, each one wrapped in a different kind of colourful paper.

He places three on the empty spot next to Gladio, who hands one to Ignis. Noctis, still holding two other parcels, drops down onto his spot next to Prompto; one leg crossed underneath the other.

Gladio clears his throat, and holds the boxes out to Prompto. They’re both relatively small; wrapped in dark red paper that the words ‘happy birthday’ written over it again and again in different fonts and sizes. Prompto takes them hesitatingly.

He stares at Gladio.

 “Aw, for me?” he says. “You shouldn’t have.”

He says it like it’s a joke, but he honestly means it. Spending time together with his friends is amazing enough – he hadn’t thought he’d get the chance. And the decoration, the cake – it’s already more than enough. He doesn’t need gifts.

“It’s from me,” Gladio explains, unnecessarily. “Open it.”

Prompto’s eyes drift down to them, and he pulls them closer, before slowly – slowly – starting to unwrap the first one. There’s a yellow cardboard box underneath, with a chocobo head printed in the bottom right corner. Prompto lifts the lid.

“Oh,” he says, in awe. It’s a lanyard, and an absolutely adorable one at that. Prompto pulls it out. The ribbon is blue, with tiny chocobos printed all over, and a strong metal clasp at the end. “Gladio, it’s so cute! I love it!”

“I’m glad. Iris helped me pick it out. She wishes you a happy birthday, too.”

“Tell her thank you. Tell her I love it. Tell her I’m going to hug her the next time I see her and you can’t stop me.”

“Just this once, I won’t.” Gladio grins. “Open the other one.”

The other one turns out to be a thinly woven leather bracelet. “I thought it would be odd, a chocobo-themed lanyard and a leather bracelet, but no.” Gladio shrugs. “It’s you. It somehow fits, because it’s you.”

“It’s perfect.” Prompto wants to say more, but he feels his throat close up.

Ignis however saves him by holding out his own gift, wrapped in blue and silver gift-wrap. “This is from me. I hope you can use it.”

It’s heavy, in his hand. Prompto knows it’s a book before he opens it, but right then, he decides it doesn’t matter what kind of book it’s going to be. Even if it’s one about botany or entomology – Prompto will love it anyway.

However, because it’s Ignis, and Prompto ought to give him more credit, it does not turn out to be a book about plants or insects.

It turns out to be a book about firearms.

“Noct tells me you’ve expressed an interest in guns,” Ignis says, as Prompto flips through the pages. It’s very detailed – there’s a section on guns and firearms that have been issued by both Crownsguard and Kingsglaive in the past, a section dedicated to design and development of different models. There’s a section on the basics of using firearms, too.

“I thought it might become relevant,” Ignis continues. “In the future.”

“I love it, Ignis. Thank you. Thank you both so much. I don’t know what to say.”

It’s true that he’s been reading up on the Crownsguard lately. That he’s been toying with a vague idea or two, of joining. It’s nothing concrete yet – but…

But.

It would be hard, surely – Prompto hasn’t got the first clue about fighting, not when there isn’t a video game involved, but he already knows that he’s going to want to spend the rest of his life at Noctis’ side, and if joining the Crownsguard is the best way to do it – if putting his life on the line to protect Noct’s is what it takes – Prompto already knows he’ll do it in a heartbeat.

Noctis nudges him with his knee. Prompto turns to see him fiddle with the bow of one. He’s not looking at Prompto, and it’s a good thing Prompto knows better, because otherwise he’d have to call his best friend nervous. “You haven’t opened mine yet.”

Yeah. Definitely nervous.

Noctis shoves the two gifts in his hands, effectively silencing any comment Prompto could have made. Prompto chooses the flatter, bigger one first. That, too, feels like a book, but a lot lighter than the one Ignis had given him.

It’s not a book, exactly. It’s a photo album.

It’s beautiful; black leather with silver ornaments at the corners; the word “Memories” embossed on the cover.

“I know you keep most of your photos in a box in your room. I thought this would be a nicer way of keeping them.”

Prompto doesn’t know what to say; it’s such a thoughtful gift. He traces the word with his finger. Once. Twice. It’s the most beautiful album he’s ever seen.

“I’ll fill it with photos of all the things I love,” Prompto promises. “Thank you, Noct. Really. It – it means a lot.”

Noctis smiles and then points at the last box in Prompto’s lap. “Before you open that,” he says, “let me say that I wanted to. And there will be absolutely no take-backs.”

Prompto doesn’t understand that remark until he does. Because the last gift turns out to be a camera. Not just any camera – the _Lokton LX-30_. The model he’d been saving up for.

The model Noctis knows Prompto’s been saving up for, because it’s the one he’s been mooning over whenever they pass the display window of the camera equipment shop on their way to the arcade.

“No.” He says. “No, are you – Noct. This is too expensive. I absolutely can’t.”

“You absolutely can.” Noctis frowns. Holds up a hand when Prompto tries to push it back into his hands. “I know how much you wanted it. I told you – no take-backs.”

“But Noct. _Noctis_. It’s too much.”

“It’s not.”

There’s something about the way he says it that makes Prompto look up. Noctis is looking at him as if he’s willing him to understand something – what, Prompto isn’t sure. But in the next moment, the look is gone, and Noctis sighs before laying his hand over Prompto’s.

“I wanted to get you this, “he tells him. “Because I wanted to make you happy. Let me?”

Prompto turns to the others for help. But Ignis inclines his head, smiles that knowing little smile of his, and Gladio shrugs.

And then it really is too much. Prompto looks down, bites the inside of his cheek. “I am. Happy. This, all of this – thank you.” He doesn’t cry, but it’s a near thing. He’s never had this. He’s never felt like he could be allowed something like this, like he’d deserve it, but here they are Ignis and Gladio, and – _Noct_ , doing all this for him, saying they want him happy.

He looks up, and nods. “Thank you. Thank you.” And then, because twice isn’t enough, he says it again, “ _Thank you.”_

Prompto decides the first picture to go into his new album should be one of the four of them. It’s a good photo, too:  Prompto positions his new camera on the kitchen counter –  a substitute for a tripod. They stand before the couch; to his right, Gladio throws an arm around his shoulders, and Ignis, on the other side, raises his hand in a peace sign. Before the flash goes off, Noctis’ hand finds Prompto’s; he intertwines their fingers and squeezes.

(His hair is unstyled, and his bangs stick up on his right side - which honestly, doesn't even look that bad; Noctis had managed to tame it fairly well. And despite that, and the fact that he's wearing a worn and baggy t-shirt, Prompto finds it's the first picture of himself in a group where he doesn't feel out of place.)

Afterwards, Gladio stretches, and he and Ignis collect the wrapping paper before heading into the kitchen. Prompto, still fiddling with the camera, lifts it and snaps another one of Noctis.

“Hey.” Noctis pulls him close again, rests his head on top of Prompto’s. “Happy Birthday, you idiot.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> And thus, Prompto's new hairstyle was born. 
> 
> I wanted there to be more Prompto/Noctis, but I guess I can't have my cake and eat it, too. It's enough to merit the tag though, right?  
> WHY CAN'T I MAKE THESE TWO KISS, GODDAMNIT.
> 
> (Also - you just know Noctis rushed home and had no time to shower because he wanted everything to be ready for when Gladio picked Prompto up. Ignis didn't drive because Ignis is the only one that can be relied on to stay organised and actually get shit done in time.)
> 
>  
> 
> Title taken from Richard Siken's Scheherazade:
> 
> _Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.  
>  These, our bodies, possessed by light.  
> Tell me we'll never get used to it._


End file.
